


The Sailor's Parting

by QueenofDisaster



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Lonliness, M/M, Pining, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofDisaster/pseuds/QueenofDisaster
Summary: 'Oh, there he goes, my dear is gone,Gone is my heart's desire,Oh, may the bullets miss my John,That's all that I require.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> The little rhyme is from an engraving called 'The Sailor's Parting'.

'Oh, there he goes, my dear is gone,  
Gone is my heart's desire,  
Oh, may the bullets miss my John,  
That's all that I require.' 

 

Seven months and twelve days on the account. Seven months and twelve days since John left their home in the interior of Nassau, to claim the helm of the Walrus once again, without Flint. 

It wasn't supposed to be this long. He'd promised no more than five months. 

Unmoored and alone, Flint spends the first two months flicking through dusty pages of forgotten books and tending to household repairs. He retiles their roof, and patches up the cracks in the fireplace. He finds every broken knob and uneven board and he fixes it.

By the third month, Max boldly approaches him, asking for his help around the tavern. 

He sees straight through her offer, of course. But, he is strangely touched by the sentiment, by the offer of a purpose to see him through the days. He begins tending to the bar, doing odd jobs and repairs around the tavern and in the brothel. The men give him a wide berth nowadays. 

Everyone in Nassau knows about Silver and Flint - the nature of their relationship. But their joint reputations keep their private lives private, and undisturbed. 

He helps out for coin, but mostly for companionship while John is away. The brothel girls are no longer terrified of him. After a few incidents where Flint has to step in and run out their more troublesome johns, he makes his way into their good graces.

Now when he comes to tend their bar and fix the creaking stairs, they stop by to talk. Honest chats, where they aren't angling for a job. 

They like him because he treats them like everyone else and because he doesn't spend every conservation staring at their chests. He likes their gentle ribbing and honest smiles. 

Seven months and twelve days. 

What if he just never comes back? Or worse, his ship comes in, sailing his flag, but with someone else at the helm? 

He's sitting on their front porch, peeling a Florida orange when the sound of thundering hooves reaches him. Nobody ever comes up this way, not without a reason. Swiftly, Flint ducks inside to grab his pistol by the door. He holds it loosely by his side as the rider draws near. It feels heavy in his hand, his muscles forgetting the weight after so long. 

Coming around the bend, kicking up dust is one of Max's boys. His skin is flushed red and he pulls back on the reigns when his eyes catch the pistol in his hand. 

"Mr Flint? Madame sent me to tell you the Walrus has been spotted on the horizon. It will dock in two hours." He squeaks, and Flint drops his weapon onto the chair beside him. His throat tightens.

"Any distress signal?" 

"No, sir." 

"Thank you." 

 

Anxiety claws at him. His heart hasn't stopped racing since he got the message. It's turning his stomach inside out. In an attempt to calm himself down, Flint walks down to the creek that sits at the base of the slope behind their house. 

Peeling himself out of his clothes, he dips into the lukewarm water and wipes the sweat and grime from his skin. He washes his hair with soaps given to him by the brothel girls. 

Dragging himself to the edge of the bank, he sits and untangles his hair, which he has let grow during John's absence. When he finally settles, he sits himself in front of the mirror in their kitchen. With practiced fingers, he sweeps his hair in a small queue and trims his russet beard. He doesn't want Silver to look at him and see how much time has passed.

 

His broad, labour worked hands run down the neck and spine of their chestnut horse. His horse. John's horse. 

John had named her Thetis. After the nymph goddess of water. He'd thought it appropriate. 

James rides her into town, and secures her by the beach where he stands and waits. The Walrus soars proudly through the rest, the burnt orange setting sun like a ecclesial halo behind her sails. His blood rushes as the long boats drop. 

His stomach flips. He will not be satisfied until John is safely whole in his arms. 

When the first boat parts the white sand, James straightens. He sees Billy hop over the side, and hold John by the upper arm as he helps him onto the sand. 

James' throat seizes. And he can't move, not yet. 

John lengthens his spine, hand holding onto his side as his eyes scan the beach. His hair has grown down to his chest and he looks a bit thinner in the face, but mostly just exhausted. 

When his eyes find James, his head drops in relief. 

That sets him into motion and he stumbles through the sand to meet him. 

"Oi, the landlubbers here." Billy grins at him and claps him on the back. "Don't worry, we brought him back relatively in one piece." 

John isn't looking at Billy as he talks. His eyes are on Flint and his expression says everything.

John stumbles a bit with his uneven gait and James and Billy are there to hold him up.

"I'm fine." He rasps, gently pushing them away.

"He's been in a right mood. You think taking the galleon would have lightened his spirits." Billy says to Flint.

"I'm standing right here." John protests.

"We need to get you home." James says and John nods, keeping a physical distance between them. James understands his need to walk himself down the beach, without help. Prying eyes and gossiping lips spread weakness like a virus. 

His hips tilt as his boot sinks deep into the sand with each step, earning a grimace.

James bids farewell to Billy as John hoists himself onto the horse with a grunt, James sliding in behind him. 

Pressed up against John' back, James feels at peace as John sinks into the embrace of his arms fully.

They don't talk all the way to the house. 

Away from the secret eyes of the beach, John lets James help him down from the saddle. He keeps a hand on his shoulder, not out of pain, but the sheer exhaustion that threatens to buckle his knees and send him sprawling. 

Settling him inside at the kitchen table, James bring back fresh bandages and a bowl of water and a cloth. 

John's blue eyes peek open and he looks down at the bandages.

"What are those for?" He murmurs.

"You know what they're for." James says lowly, amusement curling his lip a little. 

John sighs with a small smile of his own and he shrugs out of his captains jacket with a wince. James takes it from him and drapes it over the chair. John unlaces his shirt and untucks it from his pants. He sucks in a little breath when he tries to pull it over his head and James steps in to help him. 

The bandages wrapped around his ribs are soiled and not secure.  
"Did you do this yourself?" James asks, teasingly and John sighs.

"There was not enough time to do anything but eat, sleep and hunt." 

"I can see that." James says as he rubs his thumb over John's untamed beard. He obediently leans forward so that James can unravel the bandages. On the last round it sticks a little and John sucks in a breath between his teeth. 

Silently dropping to his knees, James inspects the stitched up gash on his ribs. It is starting to scab, thank god. Taking the bowl and cloth he dabs it gently and John doesn't stir. Dirt washes off with it and James continues to wipe his chest, leaving pinking clean skin in its wake.

He washes him all the way down to his bitten nails and callused finger tips. Taking a new bit of cloth, he washes his face, but his beard is matted and tangled in some places. 

"There's not much I can do about this." James says, and John shrugs. 

"Cut it off, I'm sick of it." 

James chuckles and goes to find clothes for John to change into. When he comes back, John is washing his hair in the tin bucket, scrubbing his face. 

He takes a sheets of linen and rings out his hair. When he comes back to collapse in the chair, he looks more like himself, and he holds up a pair of scissors.

"While your there." He smiles a little bit. 

 

James trims his beard down the his skin and wipes cream over his jaw, smirking at how ridiculous Long John Silver looks at this moment. 

"Pack it in." John grumbles, smiling. 

John holds very still as James takes the straight razor to his cheek. Contented silence fills the air as his hand moves methodically. Clean shaven, John looks immediately five years younger. 

Running his fingers through John's hair, he pulls it down over his chest to cut a clean line across his collarbones, damp curls falling to his lap. 

While John goes to change his clothes, James gathers some food and drink and sets it on the table for them both. 

Walking back in in navy shirt and black trousers, he looks like a different person. 

"Mmmm." John says. He comes up behind James in his chair, threading his fingers through his beard and resting his cheek on the top of his head. 

"I'm sorry." John says quietly and James holds onto his arm, keeping him close. 

"I thought you weren't coming back." James admits and feels the gentle press of lips against his hair.

"I'm here." John says, caressing James' chest. 

"You should sit, eat something." James insists and John sits back in his chair. They share longing, lingering glances across the table as they eat.

 

As James busies himself with cleaning up, John pours himself some rum and knocks it back, swiftly. A long time ago, that was James' ritual each night on the Walrus, before he collapsed onto his bunk. Just another thing John has inherited from him. 

John comes up to his side and gently guides him into a kiss, sucking in a breath through his nose. 

"Come to bed." His whispers against his lips. 

"In a moment, you go ahead." James replies and John smiles, caressing his cheek. 

 

James locks all the doors and blows out the lamps, taking one into the bedroom. John is naked, sheets drawn up to his waist, hands tucked under the pillow and completely dead to the world. 

James strips himself of his clothes and slips into the bed. Petting the curls away from John's sleeping face, it all catches up with James. The worry, the anxiety and loneliness. Throwing his arm across his eyes, James works to quieten his sobs, not wanting to wake John. 

But John has been a light sleeper ever since the loss of his leg. And he feels John turn over and shuffle into him, tucking his head under James' chin. James drops his arm his John's shoulder, burying his fingers in his hair, breathing in the scent of him that he'd missed but never forgotten.

They don't say anything about the tears wetting James chest or John's hair. Eventually John falls asleep against him, heavy and warm. And finally, after more that seven months, James sleeps soundly.


End file.
